


After So Many Years

by Crysania



Series: Rumbelle Fic Exchanges [12]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 16:42:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15393018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crysania/pseuds/Crysania
Summary: Written for the Rumbelle Christmas in July 2018 to the prompt "Cold Case." Gold and Nolan take on a cold case that has far-reaching consequences for both Gold and Belle, the witness to a crime she can't quite remember.





	After So Many Years

Something hits his desk with a loud _thud_ and what’s amazing is that it no longer even fazes him. “What can I do for you, Mr. Nolan?” Gold would roll his eyes at the younger man but he knows that’s pointless. David Nolan is cheerful to a fault and just blows past his sarcasm. He’d taken it for stupidity in the first months he’d been paired up with the man, often wondered how someone clearly so obtuse had managed to get far enough to work alongside Iain Gold, top detective in the precinct.

But time had told him one thing. David Nolan wasn’t stupid. He just didn’t let Gold’s moods bother him, completely ignoring his anger and running roughshod over his darker moods. The man was a bloody easy-going _nightmare_ and in all honesty, Gold wouldn’t trade working with him for anything. He was a brilliant detective and the two had ended up with a working partnership that _got things done_.

Which was why, once again, David had been sent into the stacks to peruse the cold cases. _Ah, cold cases_. Gold really found those to be the most fascinating, if he were to be completely honest. Which he wasn’t. Not that often at least. Digging through clues years, sometimes decades old, looking for something missed by his predecessors. He was _good_ at it and always happy that his current cases had been solved so he could devote some time to poring through the old ones clogging up the system.

“Got a good one for you,” David says as he sits down across him.

“Shoot,” Gold responds with and David smiles. The younger man always does love when he finally gets his attention. He’s earnest, almost like a puppy. Even if he is deadly with his weapons. Some sort of Belgian Malinois, Gold thinks. There was a time, really, that he had had hopes of being a K9 Officer. He still tends to compare people to dogs in his head. Regina Mills, Mayor of their little town, is a Belgian Sheepdog, carrying herself with haughty disdain for those she sees beneath her. There’s a heart of gold in there somewhere, he’s sure of it, and for those who win her over, she’ll be loyal for life. Killian Jones, one of the police officers he finds himself working with a lot, is a scrappy terrier. You do _not_ mess with him. He’s temperamental, but he’s _good_ at what he does. Gold appreciates that.

And Nolan? He’s a Golden Retriever. Affable, gregarious, but with a keen intelligence that’s hidden somewhere behind the somewhat goofy exterior.

“1994,” David starts with.

“Oh goodie,” Gold shoots back. “Almost a quarter of a decade old. My favorite.” There’s a sarcastic bent to the words but both he and David know the truth. He revels in these cases. It’s why David chose it, he’s sure of it.

David ignores him and continues on. “Victim was a 27-year-old woman. Collette French.”

Gold’s eyebrows rise at that. “French? Any relation to the florist?”

“Moe?” David asks as he digs through the paperwork. “Yeah. Looks like she was his wife.”

“Interesting,” Gold murmurs, pulling the papers to himself. They’re yellowed with age. The Storybrooke Police Department hasn’t ever worried about keeping such things airtight. He’s found more than a few half-destroyed when there was a flood from the bathroom next door to the room. These have a little bit of the tell-tale brown stain on the edges, but otherwise they’re legible. “There was a daughter,” Gold points out. “Belle.”

David nods. “She’s the librarian a few towns over. Moved out, but not away.”

“You know her?” It could be conflict of interest if either of them has any sort of relationship with her, no matter how tenuous.

“Mary Margaret does. Those kids at the school are pretty big readers. She’s been over there to collect some books through interlibrary loan.”

Gold just nods. No conflict of interest there. “Any witnesses?”

David sifts through the paperwork. “Not exactly. Belle was home at the time. Heard a loud pop and a scream and when she came running her mother was gone.”

“Gone? That’s an odd way to put it.”

“No,” David says with a small frown. “ _Gone_. She wasn’t there. Forensics found a train of blood leading out of the kitchen to the garage and then nothing. Blood spatter pattern indicates that the wound was a superficial one. The bullet was found lodged in the wall near the stove. 22 caliber pistol. The weapon was never found.”

“And the daughter saw nothing?”

“Nothing at all.”

“That doesn’t seem odd to you?” Gold asks, one eyebrow raised. “The girl comes running after she hears the gunshot and by the time she gets there there’s no trace at all of her mother. She hears no screams. Nothing. The wound was superficial so her mother was alive then. But the girl doesn’t get there in time to see _anything_?”

“That does seem strange,” David muses.

“What happened to the mother?”

“No one is quite sure. Collette was found half-buried in the woods. It looked like animals had dug her up. There was blood on the ground at the burial site. Likely whoever did it, killed her and then buried her quickly and shallowly without even wrapping her anything. It was a quick dump and run job.”

Gold nods at that. It’s not the first time he’s seen that method, not the first time he’s seen the horrors of a body dug up by predators. “Any suspects?”

“They checked out the husband of course. His alibi was pretty tight.”

Gold sits up at that. “Pretty?”

“Friends vouched for him. He was playing poker at one of their houses, their usual Friday night thing…”

“Friends can lie, Mr. Nolan,” Gold points out.

“Of course.” Gold is always amazed at how _nothing_ fazes the man. He takes his bad moods and his curtness in stride without even a slight faltering of his smile. “Naturally we’ll check them out again.” David makes a notation in the notebook that he keeps with him at all times.

“Anyone else?”

They sort through the rest of the notations. Collette French was liked by everyone, so far as he can tell. No enemies, no deals gone wrong, not even borrowing money from anyone. She was, by all counts, _loved_. Gold sneers at that a bit. _Loved_. He sometimes wonders what that’s like. He’s not exactly _lonely_ …but, well, sometimes when he goes home to his house on the edge of town and the only one there to greet him is his dog, he wonders how he ended up there.

Divorced from his wife, estranged from his son. At least he has Jake to greet him. The Border Collie mix, amusingly named for a cop on a TV show that he’d never ever admit to liking, is always excited to see him.

“No one,” David says.

Gold looks up and meets his eyes. “It’s going to be a very difficult case,” he mutters.

One side of David’s mouth quirks up just a bit. “Very difficult,” he agrees.

Gold smirks. “Our favorite kind.”

* * *

They start with the daughter. It seems the obvious place to begin. She’s the only one who was there. There are no siblings, no friends. The neighbors claim to have heard nothing. Gold has concerns about that. If they were home, they would hear a gun shot. They might mistake it for a car firing. Or maybe someone setting off fireworks if it had been anywhere _near_ July. But it was September. And still warm enough that someone _might_ have had their windows open.

The whole thing is damned fishy the more Gold looks into it.

No witnesses.

No one hearing anything.

Damned suspicious that’s what it is.

He wanders into the library late in the day. They close at 5:00pm, the usual time for these small town libraries. It’s bigger than theirs in Storybrooke and newer, one of those ugly concrete buildings that he hates seeing go up in these historic towns. But it’s cheaper, easier, doesn’t require any true artistic eye for detail like in the old days.

He hears her before he sees her. “Yes, Marcy. Clifford really _was_ that huge.” There’s an amusement and a lilt to her voice he’s not expecting. Australian, if he’s not mistaken. But watered down from years of being in the States. She was only five when her mother was killed and he wonders how long they’d been over here before that happened.

Nothing in the file had indicated they were foreign. And he doesn’t know the florist, not really. He knows _of_ him more than knows him. He doesn’t remember ever speaking to the man.

He waits until she’s done with the small child who clutches _Clifford the Big Red Dog_ tightly against her chest. There’s a small lurch in his chest as he watches the exchange, remembering his son Neal’s first attempts at reading. It was so long ago and now Neal…well, some of that is better off left unsaid.

He steps out of the shadows when she’s alone at the desk.

“Oh!” she says and he tries not to smirk. She’s beautiful. He had tried not to notice that earlier, but the truth is…he’s not dead. He notices a pretty woman like any other adult male. But he tends to ignore them. Women have never been any good for him. Or maybe it’s he who’s not been good for them? He’s never been quite sure. Any anyway, he has a good 20 years on the petite librarian. “We’re closing down in just about…” She glances at the watch she’s wearing before looking back up at him with a somewhat rueful grin. “…three minutes. Do you need to check something out?” He can see her watching him intently, can pretty clearly see he has nothing in his hands and while she doesn’t look nervous…yet…he knows she’s on the border of it.

“No.” He reaches into his coat, pulls out the wallet that holds his badge and presents it to her.

And her whole body slumps.

“This is about my mother, isn’t it?”

He’s left standing there, his arm outstretched, badge pointed toward her and he just stares. She sounds so…resigned. As if she’s heard this a thousand times.

“How did you…”

“Look,” she says and leans forward, her eyes scanning his badge quickly and without any sort of preamble. “Detective Gold, is it? Unless you’ve miraculously found her killer and you’re here to tell me that, I’m not interested.”

She turns away.

He lowers his arm.

“Miss French,” he murmurs.

“Two minutes, Mr. Gold. I suggest you check something out or get on about your day.”

He leans over the counter then, hands pressed to the slightly rough surface. “Aren’t you the least bit concerned about who committed this heinous crime?”

She whips back around and there’s fire in her eyes. Even in the dim light of the library he can see it. Her voice is quiet, as is suited to where they are certainly, but there’s steel behind the words. “Of course I am. But you have no new information. You never do.” He must have looked surprised at that. “Oh, did you think you were the first cop to think he could solve Storybrooke’s greatest crime? You aren’t.”

He’s not even sure how to react to her, really. She’s…something. And he feels a strange thing stir somewhere inside him. As she turns away, he reaches out and touches her hand. Lightly. But there’s an electricity there that jars him more than he’d care to admit. “Miss French.” His voice is a little tight, a little lower than usual, as he leans toward her. “I don’t fail when I take on these cases.”

Her eyes widen slightly. “Mr. Gold…” she starts to say but he cuts her off with a swipe of his hand.

Reaching into his pocket he pulls out one of his cards and tosses it next to where her hand is clenching the edge of the counter.  “If you change your mind…” For a moment he meets her eyes and then he turns and makes his way out of the library.

She’ll come to him.

He knows this, somehow.

She might have looked shell-shocked at his actions, but they _always_ come. They want to know, _need_ to know. The case might be many years old, but the need for answers, for closure is always there. And he understands this, he truly does, has seen it so many times before in the hungry desperate looks of those left behind after the tragedy.

Belle French will come to him within the week. He’d bet on it if he were the type to lay down such bets. 

* * *

 

She stares at the card for a moment as the detective turns and walks away. She finds herself watching him as he exits her library. She knows who he is, of course she does. She might have moved away from Storybrooke, might have tried to outrun the memories of the gunshot, of finding all that _blood_ and no sign of her mother.

But there are some things you don’t forget.

No matter how far you run, no matter how many years pass, no matter how hard you try to push those memories from your mind.

They’re still _there_.

And she knows that she missed something. She was only five, so there’s no doubt she missed _something_. Probably something hugely important. But she can’t _see_ it, can’t draw that up. All she can see that blood. Dotting the walls, the floor. She can remember the neighbor and the screams and the police who took her away. She can remember her father, crouching down and telling her everything will be alright and he’ll take care of her.

But she can’t remember _the_ most important thing.

_Who did it?_

She calls her best friend Ruby the next day. Ruby was a couple years older than her, almost more of an older sister than friend when she was young. She had taken her under her wing and protected her when her world had fallen apart. Ruby, who was over half a foot taller than Belle and fierce. _Like a wolf_ , Ruby once told her. Her grandmother had dressed her as Little Red Riding Hood once for Halloween and Ruby told her she’d rather be the wolf.

She’d lost her mother too. She never remembered her and she didn’t know for most of her life what happened to her. She’d dreamed of her returning but her grandmother told her the truth when she was a teenager. She was dead. Just like Belle’s mother. Dead and gone and Ruby had cried on Belle’s shoulder while they both relived their shared trauma.

“He says he’s never failed,” she tells her.

“Yeah well, there’s a first time for everything,” Ruby says and there’s a small bit of bitterness behind her voice. She’s never really known what happened to her mother exactly. She was found dead, washed up on the shore of a river some 45 miles from where they lived. There were no leads and it was ruled suicide in the end.

Ruby never believed it. Never believed that her mother could take her own life, not when she had _her_ at home. _I was just a baby, Belle. How could she end her own life when I was there?_

“I don’t know,” Belle says and she turns the card in her hand. She’s been doing that. Spinning it around and around, tapping it on the desk. It looks worn far more than a business card handed to her just the day before _should_ already. She does this though, nervous tics, straw wrappers torn into shreds at dinner, dollar bills folded with edges carefully torn. She doesn’t remember when she _wasn’t_ soothed by manipulating scrap paper in such ways.

“You’re going to go there, aren’t you?” She sounds almost resigned.

“It’s the first time anyone has even suggested reopening the case,” Belle points out. “What if he really _is_ that good?” She’d heard of Gold. Everyone had. He solves the unsolvable. This wasn’t his first cold case. She recalls watching him on the news once. Dressed in a suit that looked far more expensive than any detective should own, hair just slightly longer than one would expect, he had hard eyes and a set to his mouth that spoke of a serious dedication to his job.

She tries to ignore the fact that she found him strangely attractive.

She tried to ignore that too as he leaned across the counter and that one little spark of electricity flew between them.

“Well, Belle, it’s up to you,” Ruby says carefully. “Do what you need to.” And she knows what’s implied under those words. _I’ll be there to help you pick up the pieces when it all goes to hell_.

When she hangs up, she’s made up her mind.

* * *

She sits down in front of Gold and another man, crosses her legs then uncrosses them, tucks one foot behind the other. The other man introduces himself as Detective Nolan and she seems to recall seeing him around when she was younger. He still seems young, too youthful and forthright to be involved in police detective work. He wears his heart on his sleeve and she can _see_ the excitement written into the lines of his face.

“So we’ve been reviewing the case,” Nolan says and she tries to focus her eyes on him, even though a part of her wants to focus on _Gold_. He’s there, watching her, and the intensity of his gaze is both unsettling and thrilling at the same time.

“Anything new?” she asks and hates the way her voice sounds a little breathless.

“Well,” Gold says and now her eyes are on him, where she’s wanted to look since she first sat down. “We’ve been talking to some folks…”

“In other words, no?”

“No,” he says. There’s still that intensity there and she wonders if that’s how he always is. She feels…exposed…as he watches her. Dark eyes, brows drawn a little low. “But that’s why you’re here.”

“I get to go over it all again.”

She’s been through it many times before. She recites it almost as if it’s rote.

_She wakes up. She’s not even sure what she’s heard for a moment. The room is dark, her nightlight in the corner blinks off and then back on. That’s odd. She can’t remember ever seeing it go out at night. When it goes out again, she pulls the covers up to her chin._

_It could be a monster…_

_Her mother often speaks of it._

_Her father says it doesn’t exist._

_He’ll protect her, he says, fight off any monster that might come in there. But there’s always something behind the words her mother says, the way she looks at him when he speaks of the monster, that tells her it_ does _exist. And it lives under her bed, in the closet, where all proper monsters reside._

 _When the nightlight flashes off and back on again, there’s a loud BANG_ _from somewhere in the house. It’s maybe the loudest sound she’s heard, almost like the fireworks she saw last Fourth of July. Except louder. Because it’s_ there _. Inside the house. She wonders if the monster can cause such a sound._

_She creeps out of her room, keeping an eye on the nightlight, on the closet. If it jumps out at her she’ll run, scream. Her father is not home that night but her mother is and maybe she’ll protect her from it._

_She moves down the hallway and here the memories get a little hazy. She doesn’t remember the trip. She’s creeping out of her door one moment and the next she’s standing in the middle of the kitchen._

_There’s nothing there._

_She creeps a little further into the kitchen, her socks making no noise on the floor._

_“Mama?” she says. Quiet. Hesitant. Then louder… “Mama?”_

_Nothing._

_No one._

_But she sees something red, splattered across the floor, the wall._

_Blood…_

“I barely remember what happened after,” Belle finishes with a shudder. “There was a neighbor…” She still remembers the door flying open, the man rushing in. He had turned for a moment as if he’d seen something outside, but then he’d rushed to Belle. “It was all a blur after.”

Gold nods as he finishes scribbling something on the paper. Then he takes a few moments to read over his notes, flipping through them. He glances at his partner and takes a deep breath. “Let’s talk about that neighbor.”

“Marco Paventi? He’s a local carpenter, likes to build furniture. Some of the pieces in my house have come from him.” He’s always been somewhat protective of her, keeping a close eye on her after everything that had happened.

“You said he turned and looked away for a second before rushing in.”

Belle blinks. “Yes. I didn’t think much of it at the time…” The important words go unsaid. _Neither did the detectives_. She’s not sure she mentioned it, doesn’t know what Marco had said to them either. But as far as she knew, nothing had come of it. She wonders, sometimes, when those flashes of the night haunt her dreams, if he had really seen something.

Maybe the murderer.

They can’t have gone far.

But no one was caught in the vicinity, no one seen running.

“Where did he look?” Nolan asked. “How far back?”

She had to stop and think for a second, freeze frame the moment inside her head. “To the left. Toward the driveway.”

“And he looked long enough for you to notice? To remember that?” Gold was watching her with an intensity that made her shiver, his pen hovering over the page.

“Yes.” She was certain of that much. “I thought…” What _did_ she think? “My father showed up shortly after. I thought maybe he saw him pulling in.”

“Let’s talk about your father,” Nolan interjects with.

“No.” Belle shakes her head. “Papa was away that night. He had an alibi.”

“What time did he usually come home at?”

Belle shakes her head. “I don’t know. I was so young. He was never there when I went to bed and always there the next morning.”

Gold makes a noise in the back of his throat and exchanges a glance with Nolan. “Did he say anything?”

She blinks at that. No one had asked her that. She remembered being whisked off with the neighbor, remembers Granny coming to get her. “He said something to Marco. I never quite heard it right. I remember the word ‘done’…‘Is it done?’ or ‘What has he done?’ I don’t really know.”

Another noise. He says nothing, just glances at Nolan for a moment. The look is charged and Belle finds herself wondering what the two detectives are thinking. But Gold doesn’t give her a chance to ask, just goes on. “You lived with him after that?”

She nods. “I still spend Sundays at his house. He needs help these days. He…can’t keep track of things anymore.”

“Right,” Nolan says and another notation goes in Gold’s notebook.

And then Gold hits on that one thing that she’s been dreading him asking. It’s something she’s kept tucked up deep inside for far longer than she should have.

“Miss French,” Gold says. “You said that…”

“Yes,” she says quickly. “I lost time.” Her voice is small as the words come out. She’s thought about that moment a lot. She’s not sure how much time she lost. She stepped into the hallway and then she was there, in the kitchen, staring at the blood stains, father swooping in shortly thereafter to take her away, talking quietly to the cops as he bundled her into the car. It’s like there was a skip in her mind, a record that got bumped and jumped ahead. It could have been seconds or minutes. She’s never quite been sure. And she’s never really wanted to spend time analyzing it.

 _Get on with your life_. That’s what the doctors, the counselors, even her father said. She’s certainly done her best.

“Have you _lost time_ after that?” Gold asks and there’s a strange bit of softness to his voice. She looks up at him then, meets his eyes. She’s surprised to see the small furrow between his brows, as if he’s not sure what exactly to make of her.

“No,” she finally says. “No I don’t think so.”

* * *

He can’t quite get her out of his mind after that meeting. The way she bit her lip, the bright blue eyes, the quiet voice still tinged with that Australian accent despite being in America since she was a child. But more than that. There was this sense of sadness and determination hanging over her that called to him.

“You like her, don’t you?”

 _Bloody David Nolan…_ “You should mind your own business.”

“I’m right.” There’s a smug grin on the other man’s face.

“You’re a wee bit too perceptive at times,” Gold mutters.

“It’s what makes me such a good detective.”

He snorts at that. “Well, I wouldn’t go that far…” He stays silent after that, watching as the other man picks up his papers and returns to his desk. He _does_. Like her, that is…but she’s a witness to an unsolved crime that he’s finding he’s _determined_ to get to the bottom of.

He doesn’t like that she lost time that night.

He _knows_ that’s important.

He spends the next few days musing over that. She was in the hallway one moment and then the middle of the kitchen next. What did she see? What did she _forget_? He knows it just be the trauma of seeing all the blood and her mother’s death. But there’s that instinct he has. It’s something _else_.

He’s almost positive that somewhere in her mind is the truth.

She knows the killer.

She knows the killer and whoever it is, her child’s brain buried it.

He shows up at her house late in the evening. It’s maybe something he shouldn’t do. He goes alone, doesn’t even tell David that he’s going. He’s not even sure it’s entirely ethical. But he finds he wants to _help_. Not just so he can get another checkbox in this column of “solved cold cases,” not just another feather in his metaphorical cap. No, he wants to solve it to see the sadness erased from her smile.

“Mr. Gold?” She sounds surprised to see him.

“Iain,” he says quickly. “Please.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Would you like to come in?”

He nods and she steps back, gesturing for him to step into the foyer. Her house is small, a bit cluttered. Everywhere he looks there are books. Crammed into bookshelves, stacked on the end tables, sitting on the chairs and the dining room table.

“I’ve run out of room.” She sounds sheepish. She must have seen him staring at the sheer amount of clutter.

“Have you…” he starts to say. “Have you read them all?”

She laughs at that and it’s a sound that cuts right through his layers of indifference. “I wish. It seems that I can’t stop myself from buying the things.” A defense mechanism, surely. “Are you a reader, Mr. Gold…Iain?” She sounds honestly curious.

“I…uh…I find I don’t have a lot of time for such pursuits.” He almost feels embarrassed by that, standing there in the presence of something she clearly loves.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yes, well, I do get a fair amount of reading in on cases.”

She nods at that. “Yes, of course. You’re not here to discuss my reading habits. Or yours. Is there something I can help you with?”

Here he hesitates. He’s not sure how she’ll take this, if it’s the right answer, the right thing to do. “There is…”

“But you aren’t sure how I’ll take it,” she surmises.

“It seems I surround myself with perceptive people these days,” he mutters. “Yes. Yes that’s exactly right.”

She watches him for a moment and he feels a bit laid bare by the intensity of her gaze. Then she sighs, and reaches out one hand to touch his. It’s like _electricity_ goes through him at that one small touch and he’s surprised to see her jolt a bit too. “I’ve heard it all at this point,” she murmurs. “Just tell me.”

“This…” The words get stuck in his throat for a second. _Just what is wrong with you?_ This isn’t him. He’s calm. He’s cool. He’s _collected_. He doesn’t get thrown off by a pair of pretty blue eyes and a smile that he can’t seem to get out of his head. “This isn’t something I usually do. But…Miss French, it’s been years since this happened and the memories have never surfaced.”

“I’ve tried therapy,” she interjects with and there’s a bit of bitterness behind the words.

“This isn’t therapy. It’s…I know this sounds ridiculous. But…I know a guy. Does hypnosis…”

“Hypnosis? Are you for real?” She crosses her hands over her chest. “I didn’t take you for the New Age hippy type.”

“I’m not…”

“Then?”

“You don’t make anything easy, do you Miss French?”

“Belle,” she offers up. “And no. I may love a good fantasy, but only in the pages of one of these books.” Her hand sweeps out and encompasses the cluttered space around her.

“Look…maybe just give it a try? I’ve worked with this guy before. He’s good. And he’s helped break through these sorts of blocks before.” She doesn’t say anything, so he reaches into his pocket and shoves the business card he had brought into her hands.

And then he turns and walks out before she can say another word. The ball’s in her court. He can’t do much more than try to push her in that direction.

She’s the key. Those _memories_ are the key. He’s sure of it. She’s seen something. If he can just get access to those memories, he might have the case. And she might have her closure.

* * *

She watches him go, gripping the card he’s left her hard in one hand. _Hypnosis_. It’s not something she’s ever considered. Oh, she’s read about it. Wondered about it. But ultimately decided it was a fantasy that she didn’t want to explore.

But he’s so _sincere_ about it. And more…there was something there, something in the way he spoke of it, a set to his mouth and a look in those dark eyes of his that says he _knows_. All too well.

Glancing down, she reads the name on the card, the phone number. _Archie Hopper, Psychiatrist._ He’s legitimate at least. PhD and all. He specializes in hypnosis techniques to help reveal exactly these sort of memories.

 _Do you want to know, Belle? Do you really?_ That, she supposes, is the question she has to ask herself. The memories have been hidden for so long that she’s not sure if bringing them to light will be better for her. Or worse. She wants to know what happened to her mother, of course. That her murderer has gone unpunished for all these years is something that is always somewhere in the back of her mind. And she wonders if she holds the key to finding this person, if those moments she’s forgotten are really that important.

Before she can stop herself, she’s grabbing her phone, and dialing Gold’s number. “Mr. Gold,” she says as soon as she hears the click of his picking up his phone.

“Iain,” he reminds her and she feels a small shiver trace up her back.

“ _Iain_ ,” she corrects. “This hypnotist. You’ve been to him, haven’t you?” He says nothing for a moment but she’s sure she’s correct. It’s the only explanation for that look in his eyes.

“I have,” he confirms.

“And he…helped you?” She doesn’t want to press, though her innate curiosity is battling with her instincts to not press for more details.

“He did,” he confirms.

“Alright, I’ll go to him…” She can hear him sigh on the other side of the line. “Will you go with me?”

“Go with…”

“Yes. You don’t have to go _in_ with me. But I just…I need someone there.”

“Don’t you have a friend who can go with you?”

She doesn’t say anything for a moment. “Of course, but…”

“Miss French…”

“ _Belle_ ,” she shoots back with.

“Belle…” She’s surprised to hear his voice crack a little on the single syllable.

She doesn’t even know what she’s thinking, why she’s saying it. “Please, Iain. I’d feel…” How _would_ she feel? It’s not like she knows him, like he cares about her. Like she…cares…about him. He’s just a detective, trying to make numbers…isn’t he? “…more comfortable,” she finally finishes with. “You know him.”

There’s silence on the other end and she worries that maybe she’s crossed some sort of line. But there’s something… _something_ …about him. She can’t quite pin it down. It’s in the creases of his face, a little careworn, far too serious, but she can still see that there are laugh lines there. He smiles sometimes. It’s there in the intensity of those dark eyes, his gaze both watchful and curious at the same time.

“I do,” he finally says. “Alright. Yes.” She can hear him take a deep breath on the other end of the line. “Yes I’ll go with you. Anything that will help.”

 _The case,_ she finishes for him and flinches slightly. _What else were you imagining, Belle?_ It’s been a long tim since she’d even been out on a date, she realizes. There had been Gaston but…well…some things were better off left unsaid and unremembered. “Thank you.”

She agrees to set up a time to meet with this Dr. Hopper and let him know when it is. And then he’s hung up the phone and she’s left feeling strangely bereft. His voice sooths at the same time causes a strange warmth deep inside her.

 _Belle, you’re being ridiculous_. He must be twenty years older than her. She doesn’t even know if he’s married. Maybe he _is_ , she realizes. Maybe he has no interest in awkward advances from thirty-something librarians who panics in the middle of the night when she wakes from nightmares that she never ever remembers. She’s been to any number of therapists, tried talk therapy, medication to relieve her anxiety, pills to help her sleep. Insomnia has been her best friend for her entire life. Being unable to get out of the rut she’s found herself in has been her other friend for years.

Why would someone like Gold even look at her? He has a stable job, a stable life. She’s sure he has his act together. He certainly acts like he does. And then there’s _her_. Drifting from day to day, relying on tea and coffee to keep herself going and sleeping pills that often make her so groggy the next morning she can barely function until she’s downed at least two caffeine pills and an iced coffee.

With a shake of her head and a choked back curse, she heads out to take care of her father, the one bit of stability in her life.

* * *

“Papa?” She steps in the door and finds him where she always does, sitting in front of the television. He’s a large man, grown even larger through years of abusing his body with pizza, beer, and sitting on his recliner. She sometimes wonders if he was always this way or if it was her mother’s death that caused his apathy.

She barely remembers him before, only remembers her mother’s bright star that was put out far too early. Others talk…sometimes…about her father being a jovial man, always willing to lend a hand, devoted to her mother. Jovial he is not any longer. He’s quiet, worn down, struggles his way through life. He’s been on disability pay for the past few years. Back injury, he claims, but she sees him doing things that he shouldn’t be able to.

But who can fault an old man, she wonders, for taking some time to himself? She lets those moments pass.

She can believe he’s devoted to her mother. He still is, even after all these years. Her pictures are everywhere in their house, a veritable shrine sitting atop the mantle. He lights a candle every night. _So she can find her way home,_ he tells her once. He never remarries, though she’s turned a blind eye to the occasional woman she’d seen leaving in the wee hours of the morning.

“My Belle,” he says as she enters the room, pizza box balanced on one arm as she juggles that and a couple fountain drinks from her father’s favorite local joint. “You brought the good stuff!”

She just gives him a look, a half smirk. “I always do, Papa.” It’s tradition. Sunday night pizza, a dumb comedy, and then she heads home to her own small apartment and wishes she could do more for her father than just be there.

She supposes that will have to be enough.

“Come, come…I found a good one for us tonight.” He holds up an old VHS tape and Belle just shakes her head. Small town, still has an old video place that has VHS tapes. Her father alone probably keeps that part of it in business. He refuses the new technology, all those new-fangled DVDs and CDs and stuff. In some ways it’s like he stopped living when her mother died, still trapped in late 1980s technology.

She grabs her slice of pizza and sits down next to him. He reaches for the remote and she leans forward and puts her hand over his.

“Papa?” Her voice is quiet, serious, and he turns to look at her with a slight furrow between his large brows. “A detective came to see me this week.”

He blinks but doesn’t respond.

“About Mom?”

“Oh,” he says slowly. “Of course…Does he…uh…does he have more information?”

“No. He specializes in cold cases, I think?” He never quite said _why_ her case, but she can imagine that something had intrigued him enough to pull it up. “He wants to solve it.”

“I see.”

“Papa,” she admonishes. “Don’t you _want_ to know? Don’t you want some sort of closure?”

“Do you really think this is wise, sweetheart?” He sounds almost frustrated and it’s not the first time, she realizes. Every time she talks about wanting closure, wanting to put the killer behind bars, he clams up.

“I need to know.” She offers a sad smile. “He’s taking me to a psychiatrist who specializes in memories.”

“When?” His voice is strangely tense.

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” he repeats.

“Yes. As soon as possible. So much time has already been wasted.” What she doesn’t say to him is that so much of _her_ time has been wasted. She feels stunted, closed off from the world in a lot of ways. She has few friends, hiding herself in books. She sometimes dreams of moving away, of seeing the world, but then she doesn’t. Ever. Because if she leaves, how will she ever remember? Every time she comes back to her childhood home, every time she sees her father, she hopes that _that_ time the memories will come back and she’ll be able to point a finger at the killer, see him (or her, she admits) put where he belongs.

“Whatever works for you, darling.” He bites into his pizza then and she has a sense that the conversation is over.

She takes a bite of hers but it tastes like ash in her mouth and she finds, as he hits play on the VCR, that her mind keeps wandering to the hypnotist she’s seeing. And to Gold. Always back to Gold.

* * *

Gold picks her up at exactly 10:00am. She’s not surprised, really. Something about him screams _punctuality_. He’s exact in everything he does. But what _does_ surprise her is his getting out of the car and opening the door for her. And that the car is in fact not a police car, but some old-fashioned Cadillac.

“It’s not exactly official police business,” he says quietly, answering her unspoken question.

“You don’t take all of your witnesses to therapy appointments?” She tries to laugh it off but there’s a strange sort of tension in the car as he puts it into gear and drives it off.

“No,” he says simply.

“Then why…”

“I don’t know.” She turns to look at him and he shakes his head, grips the steering wheel harder.

She doesn’t want to press any further and so settles back into the seat and lets him turn on the radio (NPR, of course; she is not surprised at that either). When they arrive, he ushers her in with a hand lightly on her back and she feels _something_ trace up her spine at the contact. She shivers when he releases her.

“10:45 appointment. Belle French.”

“And you are?” the bored secretary asks.

“Iain Gold…”

“I mean…you _are_ …husband? Boyfriend?” She glances past him to where Belle stands and makes a noise in the back of her throat. “Father?”

Belle feels slightly horrified at that and even _more_ so when she sees the slight pink tint to Gold’s cheek. “He’s the detective working on my case,” she says definitively and he gives her an odd look at that one. Maybe she wasn’t supposed to admit that. _Dammit_ …it’s not like they don’t know she’s some sort of basket case after all. She wouldn’t be here if there wasn’t _something_ …

“I see,” the woman says and waves a hand dismissively at her. “Have a seat. Dr. Hopper will be with you in a moment.”

* * *

He watches her go in, picks up one of the magazines. He doesn’t know why there’s a strange feeling of…dread, is it?...in the pit of his stomach. _You don’t do his, Gold_. The words rattle around in his brain somewhere. He’s not the sort to _care_ about the witnesses, the people who lost someone, the victims of the crimes he’s investigating.

He solves them.

He feels pride at his accomplishments.

He moves on.

Emotional entanglements are not Gold’s way. He’s well known for his calm rationality in the face of things that bother others.

But this bothers him.

Far more than it should.

He sits half-choked with emotions he’s not used to feeling, occasionally glancing at the secretary. She gives him an assessing look and raises one eyebrow. He can almost hear her thinking. _Just the detective, sure…_

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat at the thought.

She could be solving the crime in there _right now_ , putting an end to any sort of excuse he has to see her.

When she comes out nearly an hour later, her eyes are red-rimmed, but dry and Hopper meets his eyes and shakes his head. _No, not this time_. When she steps closer to him, he reaches out and it’s almost without thinking that he enfolds her in a hug.

 _Iain Gold does not hug_.

She sighs into his shirt and wraps her arms tightly around him for a moment. The secretary is watching with narrowed eyes. Hopper looks surprised and he’s certain the man is rarely surprised.

“Belle,” Gold finally says as he disentangles himself from her. “Go on ahead. I’ll meet you at the elevator.” She nods and walks off without another word. He’s not sure if he wishes she said something more or didn’t.

He turns back to Hopper then and the psychiatrist is watching him with an inscrutable expression across his face. “Nothing?” Gold asks.

“You know I can’t…”

“Dammit, Hopper, I’m trying to solve this case.” He runs his fingers through his hair, pushing the lank strands back and out of his eyes for a moment.

“She came close,” Hopper says quietly. “She was almost there. But then she pulled herself out of it.”

“She doesn’t want to remember,” Gold answers with. “There’s something there…”

“Some sort of trauma,” Hopper agrees. “She’s seen something…”

“She knows who the killer is,” Gold says. “I’m certain of it.”

“I’d like to see her again next week.” Gold just nods. “Same day, same time?”

“That long?”

“Let her process. It’s been almost 25 years. Another week won’t matter.”

Gold just inclines his head and turns to walk off. He’s only gone a step when he feels Hopper’s hand on his arm. He pulls away from the other man but turns to look at him anyway. “Just…be careful, Detective,” Hopper says and nods his head toward the door where Belle had disappeared.

“I’m always careful,” Gold answers with. “You needn’t worry about that.”

* * *

Belle is holding the elevator when Gold appears. They step in and neither speaks for a moment. There’s a…she doesn’t know what…she feels a strange fluttery feeling in her stomach, feels the tension across her forehead, like a vice clamping down around her head. “I almost had it,” she finally says and her voice is strangely loud in the confines of the elevator.

Gold nods. “He’d like to see you again next week.”

“Do you think there’s a chance I might remember?” Does she want to? A part of her says _yes_ but then another part of her says she’s gone this long without knowing. What would the rest of her life matter anyway?

He doesn’t say anything for a moment and then suddenly reaches out and smashes his fist into the buttons on the elevator. It grinds to a halt. “Dammit Belle,” he says as he turns to look at her. She jumps back a little. He looks wild and there’s a darkness in those eyes that she hasn’t seen before.

His looks softens when his eyes meet hers and for a moment she’s sure she can’t breathe.

She’s read this one in too many fanfiction stories over the years. _Trapped in an elevator_. But there are no warning sounds and she’s fairly certain _he_ stopped it. He can probably start it back up again. _Dammit Belle_ …

“You’ll remember only _if_ you want to.” The words are quiet, his accent thicker than it has been. He doesn’t look at her as he speaks. “Trauma is funny that way. You’ve blocked it. All these years.”

“I…”

“Do you know why I went to see Hopper?” He looks up at her then and his eyes meet hers and she feels pinned by that dark gaze.

“N…No. You’ve never said.” _Is this appropriate Belle?_ She doesn’t even know if she cares. She steps closer to him and reaches out a hand, touching him lightly on the shoulder. He jumps at the touch and then settles. Her hand rests there for a moment before she withdraws it.

“My father…he wasn’t a good man, Belle. And I remembered very little of him. I remembered being with him and then… _not_. The next memories I had were of being with my Aunt. One of his sisters. She and her partner raised me. I could remember nothing of almost two whole years of my life. I was living in a shithole with my swindler father. And then I was being taught _spinning_ by my Aunt Rosalind and her partner, Maybelle. Auntie Ros and Auntie May, eventually.” The last is said with an unexpected curl to his lips, almost sad in his recollection.

“And Dr. Hopper…”

“He tore into those missing memories, helped me piece together just what happened. He helped in finding my missing father.” He looks away from her and shakes his head. “Dead, if you’re wondering.  Dead and buried without any sort of care in a grave two states over. The great Malcolm Gold.” He waves a hand in the air at that. “He’s swindled his last person. Murdered, they said. Assailant unknown. It hardly mattered by then. My father was not a good person. I’d always known that. But having that bit of closure…”

His voice trails off and he meets her eyes again. When he steps closer, Belle leans toward him. Just slightly. She bites her lip, looks away, and then back to him. “Having that closure meant you could move on with your life…”

“Something like that,” he says softly.

“ _Have_ you moved on?”

“Pardon?”

She’s the one who moves closer this time, touching the side of his face lightly, reaching up to tuck a piece of errant hair behind his ear. He closes his eyes and leans into her touch and she’s sure... _absolutely sure_ …that he has not move on from whatever that trauma was.

“Mr. Gold…”

“Iain,” he reminds her and she’s surprised at the huskiness to his voice.

“Have you…” And she realizes in that moment that she wants to _kiss_ him. Belle French doesn’t have interest in such shenanigans. She never has. And yet here he is…here _she_ is…and all she wants to do is touch her lips to his and feel him tight against her.

He clears his throat then, turns away, and hits the button. The elevator starts to move again and she backs up a pace or two.

“Miss French,” he says, the words a little strained. “It doesn’t matter.” She starts to protest and he points a finger at her. “What _does_ matter is if _you_ move on. And you haven’t. Not so far. You need to.”

The elevator opens then and he gestures for her to precede him out. Conversation over. She can take a hint.

* * *

He breathes a sigh of relief when he drops her off at her apartment and no more has been said. What was he thinking, letting her into those moments, _reliving_ them for her?

_She’s a witness._

_She’s twenty years younger than you._

And yet there was…something…there in the elevator, for just a moment. And it might have been the first time he thought about tossing out his self-imposed exile from the opposite sex. _Had_ he moved on from what his father had done? He wasn’t quite sure of that. The constant fear of abandonment was there, of course. It had been front and center in the few relationships he’d had over the years.

Cora had, of course, abandoned him. She was after something he was not. She wanted power and riches and he had had none of that. At the time he’d been with her, he’d just been the owner of a poor pawnshop with aspirations of something else.

Milah had abandoned him as well, though that took longer to get over. If he even _was_ over it, to be honest. He’d found her in bed with another man, some guy who styled himself like some modern-day pirate. Apparently he was in a _band_ and that was all it had taken to turn Milah’s head. Gold could not offer her the excitement of following a rock band around the world. And so she was gone. Left him alone with his now-grown son who resented him for not trying _hard_ enough with her.

Was he over it?

Hardly.

But suddenly he _wanted_ to be.

And that thought alone was frightening.

* * *

She gets little out of her next meeting with the psychiatrist. Just more of the same. She’s not sure what she expect after all this time.

“Dr. Hopper?” she asks him as she comes out of the hypnosis. Her voice cracks on the last syllable of his name. “Do you think the memories are really there?”

He blinks almost owlishly at her for a moment. “Detective Gold…”

“I know _he_ thinks they’re there. But do _you_?” It’s her biggest worry, her biggest concern. What if she hasn’t blocked those memories so much as simply forgotten them. There are things not significant enough for her to remember. The brain just can’t keep it all in. So maybe there was nothing. Maybe her father tucked her into bed and she went to sleep and there was nothing more to it than that.

“I…think so,” he says, the words coming out almost slow and painful. “Whenever you hit that moment, something pulls you out. It’s almost forceful in a way. And it’s an odd moment to be thrust out of your memories and back to the present.”

She blinks and her eyebrows draw low over her eyes. “How so?”

He hesitates for a moment and then finally manages to get the words out. “One would think the most traumatic moment for a child would be seeing all that blood. But it’s not. You remember that clear as day. But it’s what happens _before_ that you’ve forgotten. As if that’s somehow more traumatic…”

“Could it have just been…” She tries to find the right word and finally comes up with “nothing.” Just… _nothing_.

“I don’t think so.” Dr. Hopper shakes his head. “If it were, I don’t think you’d be here asking these questions.”

She nods and stands. She knows it’s time to leave and she knows that Gold is sitting in the waiting room, hoping that she’s discovered _something_. And yet here she is again. With _nothing_.

Hopper sends her home with _homework_ this time. Medication techniques, ways to get in touch with her inner child or some such thing. Some of them seem almost ridiculous but at this point she’s willing to try anything. _Anything_ that will give her that closure, anything that will give Gold that case to add to his number.

When she steps out and shakes her head she can see the disappointment ripple across his face for just a moment. But then he schools his gaze, holds out his arm and helps her out of the office. She doesn’t miss the look on Hopper’s open face, nor the strange gaze of the secretary as the door closes behind them.

They’re almost to his car before he speaks. “I don’t think I like that woman.”

She lets out a breath that was almost a snort of laughter. “No?”

“She makes far too many assumptions for a secretary in such an office,” he mutters.

“I think she makes too many judgments to be a decent human being,” Belle offers up.

“Indeed.”

They’re both quiet as he puts the car in gear and drives off. They’ve only gone a few streets away when he pulls off to the side of the road. Belle turns to him almost as soon as he puts it into park and there’s a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach. His eyes are dark as he studies her face for a moment and then he finally sighs.

“Look, Belle…This may be wildly inappropriate considering…”

“Miss Judgmental back there?” she says with a soft smile.

“I was _going_ to say considering I’m the lead detective assigned to this case, but that works too.”

“ _Is_ this inappropriate?” she hears herself asking before she can even think about what she’s doing. She leans a little closer to him. There’s a vision somewhere behind her eyes of them intertwined in bed and she feels the blush creep up her cheeks. This isn’t like her. _Inappropriate_ and _small town librarian_ generally do not go together. And yet she finds she _wants_ to with this man. And that too is not like Belle. Belle does not find herself attracted to men she barely knows. And yet here she is, ready to perhaps do something completely out of character.

_What is happening to you?_

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I’ve never had cause to look into it before.” He runs his hand through his hair and she watches as the locks fall back to frame his face. There’s something almost impish about his features, slightly pointed noise, small ears, pointed chin. It’s not a face she would have thought belonged to a detective, just a little too elfin to be a associated with police work. “Maybe…” He shakes his head on the word and offers her a half grin. “Maybe we just start with lunch?”

“Today?” The word slips out before she can take it back and she laughs at herself. “Sorry, I don’t mean to seem so eager.”

“A beautiful woman is eager to have lunch with me and she wants to apologize? Please don’t.”

“You think I’m beautiful?” She grins at him and she’s sure he knows she’s just teasing.

He smirks at her and puts the car back into gear, driving off. “Where would you like to go?” he asks and she just laughs.

* * *

They end up at a small diner. _Granny’s_. Granny knows them. Of course she does. She knows _everyone_. She watches them with an eagle eye as they find their seats. Belle waves her off but he can see Granny give her _that look_. He wants to assure the older woman that he means Belle no harm. But instead devotes his entire attention to his date.

 _His date_.

Is she, though? He doesn’t even know what this is exactly.

But one thing he knows is that this _has_ to be inappropriate. The fact that all he wants to do is yank her onto his lap and kiss her senseless, the fact that he wants to court her properly, make her _his_. He doesn’t even know what he’s doing. All he knows is that he wants _her_. Her smile, her sunny disposition despite everything that’s happened to her. Even her worries and fears and the darker side of having such a childhood trauma. Part of him wants to worship her and the other part wants to curl her up in a blanket and protect her from the world.

It’s _ridiculous_.

And yet there it is.

“Do I have something on my face?” she asks and he realizes she’s paused from eating the burger she had ordeed to study him.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m…” What does he say, really? “I’m not good at this.”

“Well,” she says as she leans forward. “I think you’re doing just fine.” And then she reaches out to touch his hand and she’s quite sure the entire world is centered on the _spark_ he feels when her skin touches his.

He whispers her name and turns his hand, grasping it for a moment. “I’m an old man, Belle. And I don’t exactly have a track record worthy of you…”

“Track record? Is that what you think I want?” She shakes her head. “Do you want to know _my_ track record? Three first dates and one relationship that lasted about two months before he decided I was a ‘head case’ and ran for the hills.”

“But you’re not…”

“I’m not. I love fantasy and probably spend more time on the internet than I should. I write stories and sometimes they’re a little dark.”

“There’s a lot to work out with your mother’s death,” he offers up.

“See, you _understand_ me. No one has ever understood me before.” She sounds sad with those last words.

“I’d like to understand you more,” he murmurs.

“Would you? Are you sure?” She bites her lip and doesn’t that just go straight to his groin. He wasn’t even sure that part of his anatomy _worked_ anymore. And yet he’s pretty sure it will for _her_. Only for her.

“Yes.” And his voice is husky as his eyes meet hers.

She says nothing for a moment and he fears he’s gone too far, that _this_ has gone too far. He’s pretty sure the Chief is going to have his head if he finds out what exactly it is he wants to do with this woman. Then she smiles at him, squeezes his hand, and looks over her shoulder at Granny. “Granny? Check please?”

They’re not even close to being done.

He finds he doesn’t care that he didn’t eat much of his food. There are more important things right at that moment.

* * *

Belle was always a little impulsive but not like this. Yet she feels a sort of giddiness bubbling up inside her. This may be the most impulsive thing she’s ever done and she _doesn’t care_. She’s up and following him out of the diner before Granny can even pick up the ridiculous amount of money he just left on the table for her.

But she gets to the door when the older woman catches up to her. She gives Gold a long look as he steps out the door and puts a hand on Belle’s shoulder. “You be careful with that one, dear.” Belle nods. There’s nothing _careful_ about this. There can’t be. She feels a little wild and out of control and it’s _inappropriate_ and she loves it.

 _Dammit_.

She follows Gold out to his car and he opens the door to let her in and damn, but she needs to kiss him _now._ So she turns, and reaches up a hand to his neck, pushing her fingers into all of that lovely hair (and it’s just as soft as she thought it might be) and pulls him down to her. He goes with a slight _oof_ and then their lips are meeting, just a soft brushing against each other.

He sighs,

She presses her forehead to his.

“Take me back to your place?” she murmurs.

“Yes,” he says and his voice cracks on the word.

The drive to his place is both too fast and too slow. She wants to touch him. She has no idea what has come over her, no idea what this is, what’s going on. But she _wants_ to, _needs_ to. When they step into the foyer of his pink ( _pink!_ ) house, she turns to kiss him again, letting the door slam shut behind her.

When her hands go up to undo his tie, he puts his hands over hers and stops her. Her eyes open and meet his. “Are you sure?” There’s concern in his voice that she’s not used to hearing from a man.

She smiles at him, soft, a little sad. “Do I seem unsure?”

“I…I don’t know. I don’t want you to feel you have to…”

“Will you still try to solve my mother’s murder if I don’t?”

He looks almost offended at her question. “Of course…”

“Then I don’t _have_ to.” She kisses him and then kicks off her shoes. “But I _want_ to.” She’s surprised to see him hesitate or a moment and reaches up a hand to touch his face. “We don’t have to if you don’t want to.” She hasn’t thought about him, hasn’t considered his feelings. She backs up a pace. Maybe he didn’t…

“Oh, I want to,” he reassures her and she takes a deep breath. “It’s just…been awhile.”

“It has been for me too.” She reaches up to pull his tie off, undoes a button or two. He puts a hand up to stop her and she backs off again. She’s half frustrated at it, half worried. _Maybe you’re pushing_.

“Belle,” he says and his eyes are almost too serious for that moment. “It’s been awhile...a _long_ while.”

“Same…”

“No, you don’t understand. It’s been…” She watches the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. “My son was only 12 when my wife, Milah, left us. I haven’t since…” She has no sense of how much time has passed since then, no sense of how old his son is.

“And your son is…”

His eyes close briefly. “He’s 26.”

“Fourteen years?” She blinks at the thought.

“Almost half your lifetime, yes.”

“It’s been nearly eight for me.” She offers it up as if it’s even important. Fourteen years… “Iain.” She’s rewarded with his stepping a little closer at the sound of his name. “Are you sure? Fourteen years is an awfully long time and to throw it away for…” She doesn’t know what she’s saying. Throw it away for _what_? What is this, exactly? Is it just a fling? But no, she can’t believe it. Not if he wants to after all this time. She can’t imagine there hadn’t been others that had been interested, others he might have found interesting. But he’d held out…for her?

It’s almost a little scary.

“I am…” He sounds a little hesitant but then he finally meets her eyes. “I am. Belle, this isn’t…it’s not a fling to me. Not if you don’t want it to be.”

She smiles at that, and reaches out to grasp his hand. “I don’t want it to be.” She tugs him away from the door and then stops. “I don’t know my way around. Lead away, kind sir.” The last is said with a ridiculous curtsey and she’s happy to see him laugh, happy to see the set of his shoulders relax just a little bit, some of the tension draining out of him.

“Yes milady.” He smiles as he leads her up the stairs and to a room somewhere near the back of the house. The place is _huge_ , but she doesn’t want to take the time to explore it, her mind too interest in exploring other things.

He pulls her inside the room and shuts the door and she almost giggles at that, as if there was anyone there to disturb them. But then he’s pressed her up against the door and he’s kissing her and she’s lost in the sensation until he presses in a bit further and her side hits the doorknob. She lets out a muffle _oof_ and he backs away at the sound.

“Sorry,” she mutters. “Door knob.” He stares at her for a moment, wide-eyed, and then lets out a short laugh.

“Should have known it wouldn’t all go right,” he mutters and she leads him to the bed.

“Maybe no wall sex the first time?”

He gives her a rueful grin. “Well, maybe not.”

She doesn’t remember sex being this funny before, doesn’t remember laughing as he pushes her back on the bed and stumbles a bit as he climbs up next to her. It’s awkward, a little strange. But the open mouthed kisses he presses down her neck, the sharp sting of teeth at the base of her neck, the hand that lightly skirts underneath her shirt to brush the skin there, all makes her forget that strangeness.

Because it feels right.

Her shirt is off over her head before she can think of anything else and his hands come up to cup her breasts, still clothed in the entirely uninteresting plain white bra she had chosen that day. It’s not like she had _planned_ on this. Not like she _could_ have. He’s staring at her though, where his hand is on her and she realizes she needs _more_.

She reaches behind her back and undoes her bra. He releases her and it falls to the bed. She sweeps it off to the floor. It can join her shirt somewhere in the room. It doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters at that moment are his eyes on her, the way they widen, the pupils darkening, as he looks at her.

She should feel self-conscious.

She doesn’t.

His mouth is formed into a small “o” and he almost reverently touches her, squeezing lightly, pinching her nipple just a little. “May I?”

She nods. She doesn’t even know _what_ she is agreeing to. It doesn’t matter at the moment. It _definitely_ doesn’t matter when he leans over her and sucks one of her nipples into his mouth. And _God_ she did not want to wait another second.

It really had been so long.

And she doesn’t remember it ever being like _this_.

His hands roam her body, lightly touching her breast, tracing patterns across her stomach, grazing her hip. He reaches the button of her pants and pauses and she’s not going to take _any_ of that, reaching down herself to undo it, pull the zipper down. She raises her hips and he looks up at her, a small quirk of his lips and an eyebrow raise. She shrugs and he pulls them down.

She shoves her underwear off with them.

“So eager,” he murmurs and she can’t help but laugh.

“I told you it’s been awhile.”

He shakes his head but allows her to draw him up over her. She likes the feel of him there, like he was always _meant_ to be there. He’s not overly large like the last behemoth she had tried this with. No, he’s not much taller than her and he _fits_ with her.

Before he can do anything else, she’s undoing the button of _his_ pants, cursing a bit as it doesn’t come undone right away. But it does and then she’s pushing them down as far as they can go, relying on him to get them the rest of the way off.

“These too,” she murmurs, tugging at the boxers (black, silk, _of course_ ). He stops to look at her and she bites her lip as he studies her. “I need you.” Simple words but for a moment he looks completely wrecked by them.

He presses against her and she almost lets out the most ridiculous moan at just the feel of him, hard and ready and _wanting_. “I was hoping the first time might last a little longer.”

“You expect more times?”

His head shoots up and his eyes meet hers and for a moment he looks hesitant. Until she smiles and he realizes she was teasing. “Many more,” he finally says.

“Then save the romantic stuff for later.” She hopes the words aren’t too blunt. “I want you inside me _now_.”

“Well, one cannot deny a lady anything she asks for,” he shoots back and then he’s _there_ and pressing inside her and this time she does let out a sound. Half pleasure, half pain. He’s larger than the last guy and it _has_ been many years. It’s not a sharp pain, not like her first time when she wasn’t aroused and her partner didn’t seem to care about her pleasure. No, this time she is fully prepared for him and feel of him sliding into all that wetness is _glorious_ but it’s a stretch and she has to take a moment to adjust.

She stops him. “Wait…”

“Are you…” He almost starts to pull out, but she reaches around, grasps him and pulls him tight against her. Her body is wracked with shudders for a moment. It’s an amazing feeling, one she doesn’t remember from before.

She takes a deep breath. Another. He’s watching her and his eyes are both dark with arousal and worried at the same time. She wonders, vaguely, how he manages such a thing. But then she finally remembers to speak. He’s waiting for something. She nods. “I’m good.” He lets out a breath and she feels it fan out across her face. Leaning up, she presses and almost-chaste kiss to his lips and then whispers, “Now _move_.”

Belle is not one to be demanding in bed. Not usually. But there’s a hesitancy there to his actions that tells her she _needs_ to be. At least this one time.

“Of course,” he murmurs. And he does. And it’s _glorious_. Belle doesn’t remember it ever being like this, beautiful and light and somehow darkly intense at the same time. His eyes are locked on hers and when she thrusts her hips up to meet his, he groans. There’s a strange sort of pleasure/pain that is written into the deep lines of his face.

She closes her eyes then, wraps herself around him, and rides it out to the end. She’s close…so close…and she knows he is too. The rhythm of his thrusts stutters slightly and then he changes the angle and hits just that _right_ spot, his body coming into contact with her clit with each thrust. And then she feels like she’s _flying_ and he’s right there with her, thrusting one last time and joining in the oblivion of the moment.

Nothing else matters.

Not the case.

Not the hypnosis.

Not her father.

And then her eyes fly open on a gasp. “I know,” she says and she’s not sure if it’s a good thing.

Or a very very _bad_ thing.

* * *

“You’re _sure_ ,” Gold says. They had retreated after their tryst, reverting back to detective and witness, hastily getting dressed. He had tried to comfort her, had tried to reach out a hand but she had shrugged him off.

Her eyes had been dark.

Haunted.

They had rushed to the precinct as soon as they could, Gold calling Nolan on the way and telling him to meet them there.

“I am,” she says and she’s resolute.

She barely meets Gold’s eyes, glances at Nolan and sees a look of both surprise and horror across his handsome features.

“Can you…” Nolan starts to speak, but then clears his throat. “Can you run us through that one more time?”

_She’s entered the hallway and there are voices. “What have you done?” Her neighbor. Mr. Paventi. She recognizes his voice._

_A scream. Feminine. “Mama?”_

_She’s drawn forward and she’s terrified. There’s something wrong. Very wrong. “Mama?” She runs into the kitchen. “Papa?”_

_Her father is standing there. Her mother is on the ground and she’s not moving. Her father is gripping her arm hard and she’s hanging there. Limp. Like a ragdoll dangling from his huge hand._

_“Mama?”she says again._

_“Belle, go back to bed.” Her father’s voice is tight._

_Marco is watching her and there’s horror written into the lines of his kind face. “Moe, stop,” he says._

_“It’s too late,” her father says. She doesn’t know what this means. He’s still holding her mother and there’s blood falling to the ground. She can see it dripping from the side of her face. Is she…no, she sees her chest rise and fall._

_“It’s not,” Marco says._

_Her father drops her mother then. “It is.” His voice sounds dead, even to her young ears._

_“You can’t,” Marco says and rushes forward. He grabs at her father’s arm. “Don’t…”_

_“Jesus, Marco, you told me that Belle was at a friend’s place tonight.”_

_She had forgotten that. Her parents had been arguing in the days leading up to her mother’s death. Her father had gone out to a poker game with his friends that night and her mother had told her he likely would not be home. She was supposed to go to a sleepover, but she felt sad and ill. She had stayed home._

_“Collette took her out,” Marco practically snarls at the other man._

_“Well, just now what the fuck am I supposed to do?” And he’s brandishing a gun._ A gun _._

_“This?” Marco hisses and waves at where her mother lays so still and silent on the floor. “This was why you wanted to know when Belle was gone? I thought…”_

_Her father levels the gun at Marco and the other man gasps. “You thought what?”_

_“I thought that you wanted to come home, reconcile with her. You know…”_

_“Fuck her?” Young Belle didn’t know what that meant. Adult Belle, reliving the moment,_ knows _. Knows all too well._

_“You…” And Marco is crying. And her father is moving closer to him. And the gun is still there, still pointing at him._

_Belle lets out a whimper. She doesn’t mean to. She should leave, should hide, should…her_ father _._

_He turns to look at her then and there’s still some compassion there behind his eyes. “Oh Belle, what am I to do with you?”He steps toward her then…and then…darkness._

“I remember nothing more,” Belle says and swipes at the tears that are falling down her cheeks. Her _father_. After all this time. _Her father_.

She feels numb, scared, as if she’s still that tiny child discovering that her father is a monster. How did she forget that?

“The interviewing officers noted a large bruise on the side of your face,” Gold says, not unkindly. “There was a picture…”

“I don’t want to see it,” she says quickly, holding up her hands to ward him off.

“Of course not.” There’s only kindness in those dark eyes. She watches as he reaches up a hand as if he wants to comfort her before dropping it back to his lap. Nolan, of course…he notices. And she watches as his eyebrows raise just slightly.

Gold shrugs and clears his throat. “There was evidence that you might have been knocked unconscious.”

“By my father,” she confirms. She has no memory of it, not even sure she ever will. She doesn’t _want_ it, she realizes. She has more than enough at this point. She knows.

 _She knows_.

She had come to, some time later, as her father loaded her into a car and promised to take care of her. Granny had come, tutting like the mother hen she was, and taken her home where she offered her hot chocolate with marshmallows and rocked her to sleep as she cried.

The story finally has an ending, but it’s not one she wanted. Closure comes, but at what price? Her father had killed her mother and covered it up. Marco knew. He _knew_ all these years and never went to the police, never told her. She worries what will happen to him. He’s elderly now, frail. He couldn’t hold up to the rigors of prison and Belle finds she doesn’t want him to have to. She’ll go to bat on his behalf if she has to.

 _He was threatened_ , she reminds herself even as she feels a small bit of rage rise up inside her.

And she’s left with just one word… _why_. She doesn’t think she’ll ever understand. Her parents had fought, they had had their issues. She knows this, remembers little snippets of their raised voices from _before_. But there had to have been more.

And she finds…finally…that she doesn’t think she really wants to know. Knowing he did it is enough. Knowing _why_ won’t help her at all. There’s no _why_ in the world that would make her feel better about all of this.

They’ve questioned Marco but let him go. He corroborates her story, filling in some of the missing details, including the threats against his life, against the life of his only child. It comes with a weeping apology and a begging of her forgiveness. She grants it. Marco was as much a victim in all of this as she was. The secret, it seems, has been eating him up inside all these years.

They arrest her father that same day. Belle is there when they take him out in handcuffs. She looks at him and she doesn’t even see the man she’s loved all this time. He looks confused and hurt and he holds his handcuffed hands up in almost supplication. “Belle?” he says as Nolan reads him his rights.

“I remember,” she says in answer to the question he didn’t seem to be able to voice.

He hangs his head, like a dog who knows he’s done wrong, and she turns away, reaching out to grip Gold’s hand. Nolan just looks at her and she can read every bit of the sadness, the darkness, the satisfaction of a job well done in the furrow of his brow, the lines at the corners of his mouth.

It’s over.

Gold escorts her out of her father’s house. There will be much to do there later. Her father won’t be returning. She knows that. He’ll never live in that house again, never watch his stupid TV shows or eat his pizza with her on Sunday nights. He’ll die in jail, caged like the animal he is.

She turns into Gold then and he wraps his arms around her. She won’t cry, she thinks, even as she feels the wet of tears on her cheeks.

“It’s over,” he whispers into her hair and she clings onto him tighter.

“What now?” she mutters against his chest.

“Now we wait for the trial. Or he takes a plea deal. I’m hoping for the latter.”

“An end to it once and for all,” Belle whispers. “I just don’t understand.”

“I don’t think you ever will.” Gold pulls back slightly to meet her eyes, reaching up a hand to brush at the tear in the corner of her eye. “One thing I’ve learned from years of doing this is that you’ll _never_ understand. You have to accept that you have that bit of closure. Why do people do horrible things like this? I don’t know. Even when you get a motive, it still doesn’t fully explain why someone did what they did.”

“I know. You’re right.” Her voice is soft. “There’s no explanation that would make sense.”

Gold wraps an arm around her. “Let’s get out of here. There’s nothing here for you now.” She knows this is true, that she’ll have to come back sometime. But not right now. Now it’s time to get away from those memories.

Nolan is standing by the car as one of the other cops shuts the door on her father. He gives Gold a long, assessing look. “We’ll take it from here. You can catch up later.” She’s pretty sure he _winks_ at Gold before he turns a serious look on Belle. “I’m sorry, Miss French.” She just nods and then he’s gone, driving off in the unmarked car he had used to get there.

She’s left alone with Gold, who still has his arm around her waist, who is still watching her, keeping an eye on her. She says nothing for a minute and then he finally tightens his arm just a little bit more.

“So…” he says.

And she laughs. Actually laughs. She didn’t think that was possible. Not after everything. Not after her life has just been turned upside down and backward and she’s not sure what to do with herself. “So,” she responds with, biting her lip.

She has to move on.

She’ll find someone to talk to, someone to work through the emotions and the exhaustion and pain and rage that she can feel brimming just below the surface. But she _has_ to move on, push past it, find new meaning for her life.

“Would you, perhaps, like to go out to dinner? Sometime…maybe?” She almost laughs at Gold’s fairly hesitant voice but then turns to look at him.

“No I don’t think so,” she says and his arm starts to leave her and he starts to step away. But she won’t let him, reaching out and gripping his forearm. .”How about instead, we go back to your place?”

He smiles then. “A…uh…repeat of earlier, Miss French?”

“I do believe that may be what I’m thinking, Detective Gold.”

“Well, then, who I am to deny a lady what she needs?” She takes his arm as he leads her to his car. There will be time enough to process everything, to sort out what they are, what they _can_ be. She has a lot to work through. She knows this. But for now, the closeness, the companionship, _that_ is what she needs. She needs to feel _human_. She needs to not _think_ for a time.

They drive off. Not into the sunset. That would be too cliché. No, they drive off into a bit of a rainstorm, one of her hands resting lightly on this thigh. There’s a weight that’s lifted off her shoulders, one she didn’t even realize had been weighing her down so heavily for so long. She’s not quite ready to face all she’s realized in the last day, but she’ll get there. She knows she will.

And she’s fairly certain Gold will be there to help her.


End file.
